Creeping Into You
by Andi6739
Summary: "They'll slice right through your heart, because you're no better than Daisy. You're just quieter about it. You know that if Whitney knew, she'd cut you too." Sweets/OC


You think about her a lot. She creeps in, so quietly, so surreptitiously, that you don't even notice, until she's all you're thinking about. And then she'll nudge you, and ask what it is you're dreaming about, and you just smile and hide behind your dark eyes, because you're scared that if you open your mouth, your dreams will spill out onto her, and she'll see that she's all that's inside you. It's not new, but you never get used to it. You've told Booth about how she crawls inside you, but he just stared with blank eyes, pens tapping his notebooks, tap tap tap, and he said you should tell her, in a quiet voice that tried to sound wise, that tried to soothe you. But he don't know her like you do. She's Whitney Black, and she could tear you to shreds so easily. More easily than anyone else, although it's not a hard task with you. You've seen how she treats Daisy, with her cutting words, and you don't want her to turn those words on you. They'll slice right through your heart, because you're no better than Daisy. You're just quieter about it. You know that if Whitney knew, she'd cut you too.

You're not sure when it started, when your mind started to linger on her more and more. She's your best friend; you've always thought about her... and maybe it wasn't until she started dating Robbie, and you saw how she kissed him, how she hugged him and he held her that you wished you were Robbie, but Robbie is so much better than you, and it's Robbie that Whitney's eyes go to first, not you.

He doesn't treat her right. You don't think so. He flirts with other girls, he teases Whitney sometimes, just gently, but you know it hurts her. You can see it in her eyes, and you wonder if he ever looks behind them like you do, if he ever really sees her. You know how desperately she needs him to love her. You wish you could give her that love, because you'd do it right. You know you would. You'd stroke her hair, and whisper that things were going to be okay, and your hands would hold hers and your body would support hers and your heart would touch hers. You'd be better for her. You wouldn't be such a mess. You wouldn't have to be what you are now; fractured, broken. You'd be everything, instead of nothing.

You wouldn't be enough for her. You're in too many pieces to be enough. You're not even sure who you are. You're so many different people, and you don't which one is real, which one is you. Maybe you're only really you when you're around her, or maybe you're just what you want to be, what you hope to be. You wonder if she notices how you change for her. How you bring some pieces up to the surface, how you glue them together with your blood, and try to make a picture of your heart that she would like. And how when she goes, your real heart starts beating again and shatters that image.

She's so perfect to you. In everything. Because she's her, she's Whitney, and that's perfect. She's beautiful to you, and maybe at some point you could say it's because of her nose, her lips, her sharp, angry eyebrows, her cold blue eyes, her porcelain skin, but you can't anymore. You know those things are there, and they're beautiful by themselves, but all you can see is Whitney. You look at her, and you don't see a person, you see Whitney. And that makes her more beautiful than anyone else. Sometimes you can't stop staring at her, can't stop your eyes from tracing over her, and it's as close to touching her as you can come. It makes your hands itch and your fingers twitch, and you wonder if she feels it sometimes, your eyes ghosting over her.

You've gotten so used to pretending around her. It's easy... you're only ever half in the real world anyway. When she looks at you, pins you down with her eyes, you just let yourself drift into your head, and the words you speak don't make sense, but they're a way of telling her you love her, that you go to this place because you're scared the words might slip out and stain your lips, and she'd never be able to see you without seeing that love first. It's not all you are, but it's in the most intimate part of you. Sometimes you wish you could dig her out of your heart, because she's so deep inside you, and she doesn't even know it. You can feel her in every beat, and she doesn't belong there... she's hurting you. Wounds don't heal around foreign objects, but you can't bring yourself to excise her. You want to keep that wound open. It keeps you here, even if it hurts.

You used to be more together, back when the real world and your imagination meshed together more, back before reality wrapped it's cold fingers around your shoulders, and pulled you away, turned you around, and showed you that things weren't perfect, weren't lovely. Before you were disillusioned, and all the colours faded from the world, and people turned into monsters. 's the only one who's the same inside your head and out. Whitney's the only one you trust, really. With other people, you see the words clicking away in their head, but when their mouth opens, something entirely different comes out. With Whitney, the two match up. She'd never lie to you.

You wish you could do the same, but the only truths that come out of your mouth these days are the ones that don't make sense. The ones that come from your perfect world. Because every word that comes out of your lips that isn't Whitney is a lie. She's all you think about, the rest doesn't matter. FBI, food, friends, breathing – they're all ghosts compared to her. She's the one real thing in you, and you hide that so well.

You like to pretend that you're her sidekick, because they're always the ones who get kidnapped and have to be rescued. You like the thought of Whitney rescuing you. You like to pretend she would. She never has though, she's never been there when you needed her, but maybe she doesn't know without a ransom note, and you don't either. Everytime you go away, she needs you, and the two of you keep missing each other, keep missing those moments that you know would prove, would prove to you that she does care. That even if you're not Robbie, you're something. You're tired of being nothing.

Every day, after you come home from work, you drop your bag on the floor, and let that smile slip off your lips. You take off your shoes, you take off your jeans, and you just sit for a while, crossed-legged on your navy bed. You sit, and just be quiet, just be nothing. Just be still, and your fingers play over the patterns in your bedspread, your teeth gnaw at your lip, your toes wriggle, and you let yourself be. But she always sneaks in, and you don't know how she finds that door into your head. If you knew you'd close it. But you know you wouldn't lock it. It's nice having her in your head. It hurts, but that's how you know it's her. Because being with Whitney would never be simple, never be easy, and you like the idea of that, that you'd have to fight to be with her, that you'd have to struggle to keep her. But that's not you, you're not a fighter. You've never cared enough to fight someone. The closest you ever came was when you were trying to recreate an attack, and you ended up failing anyway because you started laughing. Your partner was Robbie, it should've been perfect, you could've pretended it was real, and you were fighting him for Whitney's love, but you couldn't. All you could see was Robbie your friend, who listens to you and buys you ice cream sometimes. Who'll wait behind for you to finish an report if you ask him too. He deserves Whitney, and you could never take her from him.

But you can imagine.

You lay back on your bed, swallowing hard, that nervousness in your throat like ground glass. You close your eyes, retreating into that world, that perfect place, and it's Whitney's hands that are ghosting over you, undressing you slowly. You feel her breath exhale against your neck, followed by her lips, dampening your throat, and your heart beats so hard, your blood surges through your veins, and she's in it. Your lips are trembling, her fingers on your cheek, and they stroke over your skin, moving down, lingering over the throb of your pulse, the backs of her knuckles raising goosebumps over the pulsing skin. You furrow your eyebrows, wedging your lip between your teeth, and try to feel Whitney pressed against you, her skin so soft, so warm, her weight on top of you. If she only would. Your breath hitches; she is, just for this moment, just in your head, she is, and things can be perfect.

Your head is swimming and your blood is buzzing and you're throbbing. It's unbearable, and your fingers tremble wherever they touch, your skin is hot and veined like a leaf, nerves glowing and snapping in you, fanning out and making the hairs raise on your skin, and her breath is hot on your face and it smells like coffee. And when you kiss her it's like a jolt of caffeine, and her mouth is soft, and melds to yours so perfectly. She steals your breath, and your hand forces itself into your boxers, making you jerk, hips bucking up into your hand. And you're ready, you're always ready because she's always on your mind, and she creeps through your body all day, seeping into your veins like a drug, a chemical, a hormone, an addiction. You bite down hard on your lip, so hard, and the image flickers, Whitney's weight disappears from you, her lips leave your neck, your fingers falter. Your brow furrows down, digging deep to bring her back, to keep her here, to keep her real, and you move your fingers harder, her name in every suppressed pant, a constant stutter. You have to finish before she disappears, before reality kicks in, and your breath calms, and your heart sinks down like a stone tossed into a lake. Before the sweat on your body cools, and you're alone again, waiting for her.

Your teeth sink deeper into your lip, almost hard enough to break the skin, and you know she'll ask you tomorrow why your lips are bruised, and you'll tell her you ate too much sour candy, and she'll believe you. Just harmless Lance the child.

You let your climax shudder through you, bones trembling, muscles gripping, and you hold onto it for as long as you can, Whitney's name caressing the air as it slips out, and she escapes with it, and like a ghost, she's gone. You're left panting, dragging your hand out of your boxers, holding it apart from yourself, that guilt rising in you, because you don't deserve to use her like this. You don't deserve to have her in your thoughts at all. You don't deserve to have her name still shivering in your skin, still written across you, again and again, over every inch of you. There's no place where she's no place where she's not in you. You turn on your side, still holding your hand away, legs pressing together, and you're ashamed. Her name is carved in your heart, and it's not her that did it, it's you that held the knife and slashed the letters. It's you who can't let go. Because it's Whiteny, and you're hers, even if she doesn't want you. And she doesn't, she never has, but you can't stop pretending. You can't get out of your head, and you can't get out of your heart. They hold you captive, and show you how you could feel, how wonderful things would be. If only, if only, and the possibilities keep you lingering, keep you hoping. They keep you here. She keeps creeping in.


End file.
